


High Performance

by CaveFelem



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Rush (2013)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, POV Male Character, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Promiscuity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaveFelem/pseuds/CaveFelem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Called an immortal fuck... has allegedly slept with thousands of women... doesn't get many complaints. How does he do it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Performance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Czeri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Czeri/gifts).



> This can be read as Rush fic or as F1 RPF as you wish. Either way, it is obviously fiction and is not intended to represent the real thoughts of any real people.  
> This fic is dedicated to Czeri, without whom I'd know much less about things worth knowing.

The fact is, when he tells women "I love you", he means it fully and absolutely and in the plural.

He has often been asked, directly and indirectly, what his trick is ‒ how his reputation doesn't hurt his chances, why the scores of women he has his encounters with don't combust with rage and bitterness for not being the only ones. His usual answer is to grin and say nothing. 

If the question is sincere enough to deserve more, he might say this: that from the moment he sets his eyes on a particular woman to the moment when she slips from his arms and walks with languid, loose sway to the bathroom, she _is_ the only one. There is no one and nothing else in the universe.

People tend to laugh at him and slap him on the back when he says so. It's as if they don't believe he's serious.

He is.

The trick is that there is no trick, no special secret. He simply loves women and sees no reason to hide it. He loves their curves and sleeknesses and round soft parts, the size of their hands and the shape of their legs, the adventure of learning each one's scent. Each of them is a unique challenge. How can he get their eyes to lose focus and their backs to arch as need and pure animal instinct take over? What does it take to bring them to the peak at least twice?

He has never completely lost a challenge yet. Of course, it takes a bit of effort sometimes ‒ but if there has to be something like a secret, it might be that for him it's not a chore. On the contrary, using his skills (which, he admits without a shred of modesty, are considerable) to put stars in a woman's eyes is all part of his pleasure.

It is true, by the way, that he founded the São Paulo Diving Society for gentlemen during one particularly eventful weekend in Brazil, and it's also true that it has nothing to do with the sea. His kind of diving is face first into salty-sweet heaven. The society may have been a bit of a joke, but he loves to go down on women and has no understanding for men who don't. It breaks his heart a little whenever he kisses his way up a woman's thigh and sees amazement on her face, like it's the last thing she expected. He can't imagine not loving the slow sweep of tongue that gives him the first real taste of her, or not loving her crying out and clawing at his hair, her wetness smeared all over his chin. What wonders the non-divers are missing out on!

By no means is it just selfless eagerness to please. It also gets him going like nothing else. The best feeling in the world, better than the sparkle of victory champagne, is coming up for air, observing what his actions have done to her, how near to the edge she is... and there, at that precarious balance point, moving to plunge into her in one deep, deliberate stroke. More than once, she has come completely undone from it. More than once, he has followed her soon after, every sense overloaded with _slick_ and _tight_ and _sweaty_ and _moaning his name like a prayer_.

After a smoke, he will usually want to go for round two. Again, far too often, there's the nearly heartbreaking gleam of wonderment in women's eyes as they realise it's not going to play out the average way, with him throwing them out or flopping on the nearest padded surface and starting to snore. He supposes it must be true that most men are completely done after fulfilling the minimum requirements. Not him, though. His reputation is true in this particular matter: his appetite is a match for a woman's, possibly even greater. There's thoroughly soul-satisfying pleasure in pushing both himself and her to the limit. Will she be the first to sigh "oh god, no more"? Will he? It becomes one of the few contests where losing is as good or better than winning. 

True, sometimes he's a bit too intoxicated for round two, not to mention rounds three and four after a few hours' nap. Even then, it's a matter of honour to him that no one is left displeased. He's even been known to carry a surprise or two in his suitcase for those situations.

(He surprised the mechanics once, too. Sadly, despite all the good work they'd done on his car, they were unable to fix much smaller and simpler motors.)

No, there really is no trick. He simply is who he is, loves what he loves and makes no apologies. It has worked wonderfully so far.

The one challenge he will not take on again, though, is a woman who expects him to change.


End file.
